Splintered
by Lisa Paris
Summary: 'In this life everyone takes a fall. Don't let it be you.'
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:- **This story is a triptych which follows the events of 'In the Wind.' The protagonists are Neal, Peter and James. There have been some tags exploring Neal's feelings, but none have really touched on Peter's, so I wanted to go a step further and take a hard look at all three men. With a large dose of angst for good measure..._

* * *

_**White Collar**_

* * *

_**Splintered**_

* * *

_**Part One**__** (Neal)**_

He was trapped in a nightmare, splintering, as black water closed in all around him. He awoke in a tangle of twisted limbs, too afraid to turn on the light. Darkness had long been a friend to him and he waited, his eyes adjusting. It took a while for his breathing to settle again and the residual terror to fade.

In a scramble of dreams, he'd been drowning, sinking down through the deep cold water, far too tired to kick out for the surface, too disillusioned to even try. The dream always started the same way, with a transitory thrill of buoyancy. He was skating through a silvered landscape, across the frozen level of a lake. Then with a horrible tearing and groaning, the world began rending beneath him. There was no one to hear him screaming for help as he fell through the cracks in the ice.

_Ice, black, cold and alone…_ the nightmare was an allegory. The world around him was frozen, shattered. James had gone. He was here by himself.

Truth was he should have seen it coming. Christ, he really should have known better. There had always been something instinctive, a tight knot of suspicion in his gut. The trouble was, he had wanted it. He had craved a true sense of belonging. James was smart. He had used that hunger as a means of seducing him on-side.

_As for love?_ It wasn't part of the picture. In conclusion, it never really existed. Curiosity, perhaps some competition, maybe even a little warped pride. James had wanted him for all the wrong reasons. Not because he was his father and he loved him. He had seen him as an easy way of getting at Pratt. He had merely been a means to an end.

_Revenge. _

That was it, pure and simple. Pull the trigger and find the fall-guy. Do the job and then leave without a backward glance, just a little twisted fatherly advice.

"_In this life everyone takes a fall. Don't let it be you."_

Oh, it wasn't, it never had been. Most of his life, he'd been too damned clever. In his own way, he'd done the same as James. Pulled the trigger and headed straight for the exit. Except in his case, the trigger was figurative. It was a Manet, a Turner, or a Rubens. It didn't matter who took the bullet. He was always the one to walk away.

They were alike. More alike than felt comfortable. James – _god-damn him_ - had even remarked on it. It was funny how the words came to haunt him._ You are the blue in my eyes_. He shook his head at the horrible travesty. James had really known how to work him. His soul had soared briefly with a glimmer of hope but the comparison was a cynical lie. For a shining moment it had pierced his heart. Breeched the walls he had so carefully constructed. He had weakened just enough to risk taking a chance and James had scented the blood in the water.

_Just a con_. In the end, the words were empty. It was something he'd learnt back in the early days. Always try and get the mark to like you. Sneak in through their emotions, and not through their window. It was the first rule when working a scam.

James had used it, seen through him, and duped him. He'd lifted the sash on the window. Family was his vulnerability and James had prised him open like a clam. _Locate the weaknesses, use the triggers and levers. Seek out any ghosts in the closet. Take their frailties and twist them in your favour…_ James had found his Achilles heel.

Swinging his legs out over the bed, he discovered all his limbs were trembling. There was wetness on face, on his eyelids. The self-accusatory sting of tears. He dashed them away and despised himself more. They were a luxury, he didn't deserve them. All the glass walls inside him were shattering. James had lied to him and played him for a fool.

Not James.

His father… _his father…_he felt sucked dry, hollowed out and empty. If ever a man was not fit for, or any more unworthy of the name. Reaching up, he raked his hands through his hair. If only he could stop himself shivering. James had turned him into a patsy. He would never let it happen again.

* * *

Scent of coffee, rich and aromatic. He felt better after drinking several mug-fulls. It was just after three in the morning and he was strung out on a caffeine high. His eyes strayed to the cell phone on the table. Then he remembered he couldn't call Peter. For a second, the black ice almost returned. He took a deep breath and pushed it aside.

It was be easy, so easy to succumb to the guilt and let the pain and rejection engulf him, to crawl back into the bedroom and pull the covers over his head. Like Kate and all the bad times before. Like the endless days locked up in prison. Long periods when he had lain on his bunk and turned his face to the wall.

He prowled around the apartment like a tiger. _Not this time._ James wouldn't beat him. He'd placed his fate in the hands of others. He would not be so dumb again. Everyone wanted a piece of him, especially those who professed to love him. Good guys, bad guys, they were all the same… even his closest friends.

He was this, he was that… _who was he?_

He smiled grimly at his reflection. One thing he knew for certain. He was no longer James Bennett's son.

No more soul-searching. No more questions. No more trying to establish an identity. He was Neal Caffrey, James Bonds, Nick Halden, the same man he'd always been. _Was he?_ He looked hard into the mirror and examined his reflection frankly. The man he saw was almost a stranger. An outsider who'd stolen his face. He stared harder as if seeking answers and blue eyes gazed evenly back at him. Not the same man who skated over the ice, but the man he intended to be.

There was another man…another man who needed him. Right now, more strongly than ever. To his surprise, it didn't feel like a burden. It felt warm and natural and real.

Peter was a little like medicine. You'd always known he was good for you. Didn't want to be a good boy and swallow a dose, but got worse when he was taken away. He smiled faintly – sadly - ironically. _Since when was he dependent on medicine?_ The answer was kind of irrelevant and the remedy was locked up in jail.

It wasn't even a question of choices. The only course of action was a no-brainer. He was going to do everything, whatever it took, to get Peter Burke out of prison. He looked back up at his reflection and the man in the mirror smiled at him. If James thought blood was thicker than water, he would discover the idiom was wrong.

_Like he had. _

His face twisted bitterly. James was the poster boy for selfishness. He was hard-nosed and economically ruthless, eaten-up by his desire for revenge. So consumed, he was prepared to do anything. Clearly family meant nothing to him. He used those around him to serve his own ends, like expendable pawns in a game. The metaphor was distinctly uncomfortable and made Neal feel sick to his stomach. There had been plenty of times in the past when he'd looked upon life as an exercise. He thrived on the sheer excitement, always one step ahead of his opponents. Planning his moves with a cool sense of strategy and he was the master player.

Be first past the post, walk away with the prize. He realised he hated losing. It wasn't so much about the rewards. He just had to prove he was smarter.

_Did that make him like James?_

God, he hoped not.

In the end, being smarter meant nothing. Not if it meant losing Peter. Not if he turned out like his father who would do anything to win at all costs. He took another long drink of cold coffee. The irony wasn't lost on him. If James thought for a second this was over, he was in for one hell of a shock.

To the victor, the spoils. It went without saying, and this time, it was not about ego. In simple terms, the reward was priceless. Peter Burke was the endgame.

It was lighter and he moved to the windows. Dawn was rising grey and wet over the city. He was filled with a fierce sense of purpose and a cold and implacable resolve. The silence was rudely shattered by the strident ring of his cell phone. The black waters closed back over his head when he saw the caller was El.

**_TBC_**

* * *

**_Lisa Paris - 2013_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**White Collar**_

* * *

_**Splintered**_

_****__**A/N: - **__Adult themes and words_

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_**Part Two (Peter)**_

_**Present...**_

The silence fractured around him as the quiet darkness shattered into pieces. Inescapable and almost predestined as reality splintered like glass. They were on him quickly and viciously, tearing at him like a pack of hyenas. There were hands on him, pitiless and brutal, as they hauled him off his bunk onto the concrete. He lashed out and someone wrenched hold of his arms, but not before the punch had connected. Retaliation was swift and painful and he reeled when they broke his jaw.

Twisting and scuffling, he tried scooting away from them, but a boot thudded into his midriff. He jack-knifed, retching in agony, as the blows and kicks started again.

The attack was not unexpected. He had always known they were coming, even though he was technically in solitary, segregated away in his cell. He'd made enemies, some of them influential, people with power and money. Locks could be broken and doors left opened and prison guards could look the other way.

_Time_… it had just been a matter of time before they eventually came for him. He'd been aware of the build-up of tension as the unrelenting hours slipped by. Maybe there had always been something, a bizarre sense of predestination. From the day he'd first opened the oversized file and started looking into Neal Caffrey's past…

* * *

It was done. It was over and done with. In the end he'd lost almost everything. His career and even his freedom. The only thing left was his wife. In a way, it was almost funny, filled with irony and bittersweet humour. The universe had spun off its axis and come crashing down around his ears.

_Cowboy up and do the right thing_…

He had tried and where had it got him? An orange jump-suit and a pair of slip-ons. His innocence was no consolation and the words seemed to jeer in his face. All his life he had been so damned certain. He believed in the power of justice. That dishonesty would prove to be vanquished and integrity would always win the day. _The Power of justice?_ The concept was broken. It had been tarnished and even perverted. The ideal had been taken and twisted into _The Justice of Power_ instead. Big bucks could open doors for you. They bought people and position and influence. Apparently no one was untouchable and no institution immune.

Maybe he'd been arrogant and possibly naïve to believe he could stay invulnerable. The last few years had tested his slant on the truth… ever since he'd been working with Neal.

Reality was jagged fragments and he was no longer sure of anything. His thoughts had been smashed like an eggshell which lay in the dust at his feet. Had he turned into a well-meaning tyrant who was guilty of projecting his principles? Perhaps he'd failed to see what was under his nose in his quest to rehabilitate Neal? Like doctors who tried to help addicts. The analogy had to be similar. In the end, what _he _wanted didn't matter. The need to change had to come from Neal.

_A fool_, in truth, he was more likely a fool, who'd refused to read all the signals, but if everything stopped and time was reversed, then he would do it all over again. For now, though, the hurt was exposed and raw. Even worse, was the sense of betrayal. He'd done everything, risked everything to help Neal lay his ghosts. He was the one who had paid in the end.

His rational side told him not to lose hope. Neal and his team would bust a gut to prove his innocence. As for El, she would never give up. She would fight for him, tooth and nail. There were other times when _rational_ wasn't easy. When he lay on his bunk in the darkness. Harder then to ignore the cold clutch of fear and ward off the insidious despair.

James had taken the trick and Neal had let him. Perhaps blood was thicker than friendship. Even knowing his father was a murderer, Neal had stood and watched him walk away. _Childhood demons and daddy issues._ All too twisted and complicated. It was tortuous and horribly Freudian. An amateur psychologist's wet dream.

He and El had been sucked right into it, or maybe the word was suckered. They'd done all that was humanly possible in a misguided bid to help Neal. It made him feel sick to his stomach. James had shared food at his table. He'd invited a killer to break bread in his home and even introduced him to his wife.

_God, Elizabeth…_ he did not want to go there. Just thinking of her was agony. He couldn't begin to imagine her fear. She must be going through her own private hell. She had people to help and support her. It was a meagre but real source of comfort. Whichever way this nightmare played out, in the end, she would not be alone.

_As for Neal?_

He was filled with emptiness. A sense of almost impossible wistfulness. He could guess how Neal was feeling right now and knew how much James must have hurt him. He wondered if anyone else had a clue. Neal was adept at concealing the brittleness. Peter had sighed. _It was okay, Neal was strong. He would find a way to survive this._ He would probably come up smelling of roses. He had a way of manipulating fortune. The knock-back might hurt and even damage him, but in the end, he would deal with the pain.

It was all about the thrill and the moment and hiding scars where no one else could see them - about building a hard shell of gloss and insouciance like so many layers of skin.

_And yet…_ there was something so bright and true. Something buried deep beneath the surface. There was more – _could be more_ – than just smoke and mirrors. He had seen it shining through the façade. It was easy to give up and grow bitter. To tell yourself the world owed you. Far harder to believe in the greater good and keep trying to do the right thing.

James had brought fire and the flames had been hot. The betrayal had undoubtedly burned him. Another reason for Neal to say '_the hell with it' _and stick his middle finger up at the world. In an uncomfortable twist of _'like father, like son,'_ Neal was nothing if not resilient. James might have damaged him a second time but he would never fool him again.

It was all horribly unravelled. The whole thing had the makings of a tragedy. The burden pressed down on his shoulders and he was broken-hearted under the weight. His wife was alone and devastated, left reeling with shock and anger. He couldn't save Neal… _he hadn't saved him._

Who the hell was going to help him?

* * *

**_Present..._**

He fought back, bucking under their hands, struggling desperately to gain some kind of purchase. The world exploded with a flash of white lightening as his head was smashed against the stone floor. Thrashing weakly, he gagged as they wrenched him back up, his stomach heaving in a hard knot of nausea. Somebody grabbed tight hold of his hair and a fist thudded into his face.

After that the assault was relentless. Two men held him and other men hit him. They did their job thoroughly and cruelly, laughing in relish at his obvious pain.

"_Who…" _he managed a single word before an arm pressed against his windpipe. Before he could conclude the question, the hold tightened and cut off his air.

A voice swore at him; "Shut your mouth. Shut your fucking mouth. A friend sent us to welcome you in person. We wanted a little fun with you first. When we're done, you're a dead man, Fed."

They stuffed a rag between his teeth, forcing his broken jaw with their fingers. One of them made a lewd comment which made the blood freeze in his veins.

Smell of sweat and cigarettes and blood. Smell of cruelty and male excitement. He pushed back in sudden panic and head-butted the man in the face. As gestures went, it was futile and he suffered horribly for it. Another barrage of blows to his kidneys and then a knife-like pain in his ribs.

The room reeled and spun like a nightmare. A kaleidoscope of savagery and colours. He was fading now, slipping sideways, as his body sagged in their grip.

_Don't fall…_ if he fell, he was done for. He was overwhelmed with agony and terror. The beating seemed almost secondary to the shattering threat of being raped. Bracing his knees, he fought harder, his movements frantic as he lashed out against them. _Couldn't breathe_… he was heaving and retching, body choking on the gag in his mouth. His involuntary muscles contracted and several broken ribs grated in protest. The gag was expelled with the contents of his stomach as he vomited over the floor.

Not just the floor.

Over somebody's feet. A man cursed and then backhanded him. His stomach spasmed in protest and he was violently sick once again. _Too late…_ they manhandled him back to the bunk. Someone slipped in the pool of vomit. He was lost now, he sensed he was dying. He took a deep breath and cried out…

* * *

No pain, no blood and no horror. The sounds of fear vanished abruptly. He was disembodied and weightless, floating gently in a limbic state. The hands had fallen away from him and he knew they could no longer hurt him. It was as though he was suspended in a loving and gentle embrace.

_Don't struggle, don't think, don't fight it…_

He was afraid of slipping back into the darkness. The prism had shattered and splintered and he couldn't go back there again. Couldn't figure out how to fix things or gather up the broken pieces. It was easier to lie here and drift with the tide, far simpler to admit defeat.

He was free once more and it was over. All the hurt and bitter harm of betrayal. No dishonour or the arid shame of disgrace when he was forced to admit he had failed.

Being moral, being good, it just wasn't enough. Not in a world where power meant everything. All his concepts of justice had withered and died, and maybe in the end, Neal was right. Better by far to skate over the ice, to avoid looking under the surface. The dark water waited below like a trap and it was easy to fall through and drown.

_Take what you want, look out for yourself… don't ever let anyone hurt you. Be quicker and smarter than they are. In the end, it's all one big game._

It was quiet here, calm and peaceful. A warm breeze lifted white linen curtains. Outside the sun was shining and a subtle floral scent filled the air. He looked down and saw he was naked. For some reason, it didn't surprise him. His body was smooth and unblemished. He was healthy and whole once again.

He was quite safe. There was everything he wanted. He wasn't worried, or frightened or hungry. He leaned over to the person beside him and looked deeply into her eyes.

They were filled with profound and abiding love, a real impression of warmth and understanding. She reached out and pulled him towards her and their bodies came together, skin to skin. For awhile he was content to hold her, just to savour the feeling of closeness. Then much later he moved softly against her and made tender love to his wife.

_**TBC**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2013**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**- Adult themes and language_

* * *

_**White Collar**_

* * *

_**Splintered**_

* * *

_**Part Three (James)**_

The first message came through mid-morning. He stared thoughtfully down at the burner cell. He was supposed to be completely untraceable and tucked safely away off the grid. The phone buzzed again more urgently and he felt a quick surge of adrenalin. No one should be able to call him unless fully authorised.

_'I'm only one step behind you. You'd better start to pray he doesn't die.'_

A few seconds later, he smiled ruefully, nodding his head with resigned admiration. He didn't question the identity of the sender. There was only one man it could be. Several calls to some relevant individuals and his reluctant smile faded abruptly. Things had taken a more difficult angle with this unpleasant turn of events.

So much for protective custody. Apparently, it was a misnomer. Someone had managed to pull a few strings and get through to Burke on the inside. He frowned as he scanned through his text messages. '_Get to him'_ was a slight understatement. The man had been seriously assaulted and beaten to within an inch of his life.

_Not his fault. _

He shrugged his shoulders. Securing Burke had not been his problem. The whole thing was a little unfortunate, but quite frankly, no longer his business. In-fact, it was a kind of vindication. He'd been right not to take any chances. An ex-law enforcement officer on the inside for murder - it was far better Burke than him. The entire matter was out of his hands and might serve as a valuable lesson. He'd tried to convey this sort of message to Neal with a modest piece of fatherly advice.

"_In this life everyone takes a fall. Don't let it be you."_

He considered the night he'd eaten dinner at Burke's house and the shared moments around the table. Even then, the man's decency had grated on him. It was a shame about his cute little wife. It was all so apple-pie and domestic. He made a wry face as he remembered. It brought back some uncomfortable memories. Too many echoes of his previous life.

A cramped house in blue-collar suburbia and struggling hard to pay-off the mortgage, coming home late at night to a barrage of questions from his tired and pinch-faced wife. Long shifts and not much chance of promotion as he wasted his days at the precinct, watching the perps walk away with the money, as the guys around him ground out their lives. In the end, the system was for losers. If you were smart it could be worked in your favour. Not for him a one-way ticket to Palookaville. He deserved a whole lot better than that.

_Who was it said crime didn't pay?_

* * *

The second text was delivered during mid-afternoon as he stared out across the ocean. The sea in New York would be white-capped and grey, but here it was turquoise and jewel-like.

'_You can't hide.'_

The words filled him with a tug of annoyance, a dichotomy of anger and amusement. Neal had a pair of balls, he would give him that, but his loyalty was gravely confused. _And therein lay the root of the problem_. He took another mouthful of bourbon. At first he'd been highly impressed with his son. He was smart as paint and could have been useful. There was only one fly in the ointment and his name was Special Agent Peter Burke.

It appeared he had his hooks firmly in Neal and had managed to exert his influence. He'd realised within a minute of meeting him that the man posed a serious threat. He was there at every single twist and turn and Neal followed him around like a puppy-dog, as though the man was some kind of oracle, and not a pompous stuffed-shirt with a badge.

He'd thought… _it should have been a lot easier…_ he shook his head with a surge of resentment. Neal should have realised where his true duties lay. After all, he was _his _son.

Not Burke with his air of self-righteousness and that condescending aura of morality. Everything about him was whiter than white. He was all about _'doing the right thing.'_

James smiled savagely. _See where it got him._ The thought gave him a glow of satisfaction. Disgrace and a trip up to Supermax, his whole world turned to dust around his ears. As thoughts went, it was not disagreeable. Burke was the perfect scapegoat. It had tied in quite nicely with his plans for escape and made the endgame a little bit sweeter.

As for Neal, he should have learned something. A tough lesson about life and reality. When push came to shove, no one looked out for you unless you looked out for yourself.

What a waste of all that natural talent. The possibilities would have been endless. If Neal hadn't grown a conscience and Burke hadn't been so evangelical. It was a shame when he really considered it. The two of them could have made quite a team.

Perhaps he should have got to Neal sooner. The kid could have really been valuable. Before he developed some scruples and squandered all that god-given talent. With a little bit of know-how and guidance, his life could have been very different. Together they could have made millions and ended up living the dream.

_Not now_. His face grew harder. Neal had made his bed and he should lie in it. No point crying over what might have been or whining when his universe imploded. At the end of the day he'd made his decision. He'd chosen Peter Burke over his father. The upshot was resting on his shoulders and he would have to live with the outcome.

If he had any sense he would call it a day and give up the charade he'd been playing. Cut the anklet – literally and figuratively – and go back to doing what he did best. Regardless of whether Burke lived or died, Neal's time as his lackey was over. _It would make things a trifle awkward when his handler was convicted for murder._ Neal would have some serious thinking to do and maybe there was hope for him yet?

James smiled and finished off the bourbon. The story had a gratifying irony. He and Burke were like two sides of a mirror except the image had been turned around and switched. He was guilty and Burke was innocent. The paradox was almost poetic. He had got clean away with killing Pratt. A murder for which Burke would pay.

* * *

The third alert came when he got back to his hotel. The burner cell buzzed on the nightstand. He paused in the act of undressing and picked up the phone instead. He could take a little game of one-upmanship, and in a way, kind of admire it, but this time he wasn't remotely amused. It was no longer a joke anymore. His patience was at the thin end of the wedge and any last dregs of tolerance evaporated. He scanned the screen and then looked over his shoulder, even though he was alone in the room.

'_Revenge is a dish best served cold.'_

He knew the quote but not where it came from. He wouldn't lose any sleep trying to remember. The origin wasn't important. In other words, _payback was a bitch._ Frowning hard, he studied the message again and tried to fathom the meaning. The general picture didn't get any clearer, and the first time, he was genuinely concerned. Not for Burke, although the man could be dead. He considered the remaining options. Anything cryptic always got on his nerves but the threat was directed at him.

Swearing, he ran his hand through his hair. The phrase was menacing and yet oddly ambiguous. It could imply he had more time on his side… or maybe Neal was coming after him?

_Let him come._ He wasn't afraid of Neal. There was nothing to worry about physically. Nonetheless, there had been something, a certain look about the eyes, and for a moment, he wondered if he should be. _If Burke died_… if Burke was already dead, then he could only guess how that might change things. It could open up a whole new can of worms, and after all, Neal _was_ his son.

He tried calling his other contacts, but any news from the prison was on lockdown. There was nothing forthcoming from his inside man and no press release by the Feds. Instead of turning the bed down he walked out onto the balcony. The air was warm and as calm as silk as he stared out into the night. The hotel was unusually quiet and for a moment the silence engulfed him. He couldn't help scanning the neighbouring rooms. The goddamned messages had placed him on edge.

For the first time since putting a bullet in Pratt he was filled with a trace of uncertainty. He clenched his fists on the railings. Right now, he hated his son. A deep anger was uncoiling inside him, moving slowly through his system like poison. He'd worked way too hard to bury his ghosts and nobody was about to resurrect them. In the end he had sacrificed everything. He was entitled to enjoy his revenge.

_Smug little bastard_…his resentment grew stronger. This was not going to spoil his party. Neal thought he was so freakin' clever. _Not so clever he'd seen this coming…_

He didn't know he was poking a hornet's nest or what his old man was capable of doing. If he thought blood was thicker than water, he might find out the maxim was wrong. James uncurled his hands and went back inside. He took some bottles out of the mini-bar. He had a sudden galling feeling it was going to be a long night.

He was not going to let Neal fuck this up now. Not because of some holier-than-thou Fed.

* * *

The last text splintered the darkness. Three in the morning, but he hadn't been sleeping. He lay half-dressed on top of the bedclothes, too angry and strung out to close his eyes. Bile built up steadily inside him as he lay there and listened to the mail alert. Anticipation had caused his insomnia and it was almost a relief when it came.

He lay there for a while just thinking. Going over a whole range of options. Somehow the text had gained a greater significance if Peter Burke really was dead. It was not supposed to go down like this, and leaving New York should have ended it. Of all the things to throw him a curved ball… he hadn't dreamt it would come from Neal.

He picked up his cell phone and looked at the screen, pressed the button and stared down at the message.

'_Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of war.' _

This time he recognised the quotation. It was Shakespeare, from Julius Caesar. Trust Neal to try and baffle him with intellect. The implied threat was patently clear. His vision blurred with sudden presentiment. _This wasn't over and he needed to finish it._ The dogs of war had been slipped off their leashes. The nine words seemed to warp in his head.

Something sliced through him, cold and menacing, and the warm night seemed suddenly foreboding. He was compelled to reach under the pillow and pull out his loaded gun. Swinging his legs out over the bed he listened hard in the darkness. He heard nothing but the soft trill of insects and the distant lull of the sea.

This then, was the way it was going to be. Neal had thrown down the virtual gauntlet. The gesture was truly Shakespearean. _The father being challenged by the son._ No one could accuse him of cowardice and if Neal wanted a fight he would get it. The time for family loyalty was over. He gripped tighter hold of the gun.

He would have to re-think all of his plans and cut short his early retirement, but there was too much at stake to take chances, or leave behind any dangerous loose ends.

_**TBC**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2013**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**White Collar**_

* * *

_**Splintered**_

* * *

_**Epilogue (Neal)**_

He turned the key and opened the door. The apartment was eerily silent. He walked straight across to the windows and didn't bother turning on the lights. It was easier to stare out into the night and try and come to terms with his anger. _Anger…_ he smiled bitterly. The word didn't even touch on it. As a matter of fact he was livid. Better make that burning with rage.

Worst of all was the terrible frustration which gnawed like an ulcer inside him. He'd been impotent and utterly powerless ever since El had first called. There was nothing he could say to comfort her. No inanities to help ease her pain. _Nothing he could do._ No game plan. No slicked-back, Neal Caffrey solution. Just a sense of inevitability. An insidious choking fear.

_The world had fallen out from underneath him. The dark water had returned with a vengeance. It lapped at the edge of his vision. He felt trapped like a rat in a pipe._

Her words had been careful and studiedly calm. He had sensed she was fighting for composure. Peter had been assaulted so badly there was a very real chance he could die. There was no point asking how or why. Neal was cynical enough to know the answers. Money and power could unlock any door. Somebody had clearly been bought.

She hadn't been informed immediately. Not until they'd untangled the protocol. The whole incident was a major embarrassment and would lead to an internal enquiry. Someone would have to carry the can and it was likely that heads would roll. _No consolation._ He couldn't give a flying rat's ass. He was pretty sure El didn't either. Words and platitudes meant less than nothing. Not when Peter was so gravely hurt.

Even though El was his named next of kin, there was some query about her visiting. It had taken more time and some calls to Reese Hughes before she'd been grudgingly allowed.

Peter's condition was critical and he'd been transferred to Bellevue Hospital. El had been forced to wait another six hours until they'd given her permission to see him. By then, all the fight had gone out of her. She could barely suppress her terror. She'd become so white-faced and unnaturally quiet that Neal was concerned she might faint. He was almost glad when a short-tempered Calloway arrived, stalking on her heels up the corridor. She'd glared at the stony correctional guards and made a big show of pulling some strings.

It was a power-play and Neal understood that. She was pissed off because they'd overlooked her. She wanted to know who made the call to Reese Hughes, making a point he was no longer in charge. Elizabeth had straightened her shoulders and spoken up with quiet dignity. She'd called Hughes because she'd known he would help and because he was Peter's friend.

Her admission stopped Calloway dead in her tracks. The inference was glaringly obvious. Elizabeth Burke clearly didn't believe she had Peter's best interests at heart.

Calloway's discomfiture was priceless. At any other time, Neal might have enjoyed it. Right now the small triumph was meaningless. A void had opened up inside him. All he cared about was Elizabeth and that the bastards would let her see Peter.

He sat in silence with his arm around her and the void inside him grew deeper. Anger swirling into a black vortex as it metamorphosed into hate.

Hours later they eventually came for her. A doctor and a prison representative. After speaking for a while with Calloway, at long last, they turned around to El. She was escorted alone to the ICU and accompanied for the entire visit. There was no yielding or special dispensation from the correctional officers on guard.

He supposed they were only doing their job and acting under given orders. All he could see was how much it was hurting El and the stricken look on her face. _Not just her face._ Peter's team had arrived and were summarily barred from the unit. The long wait became especially uncomfortable and their accusatory looks were hard to take.

_Not that he blamed them_.

In the end, James had done this. The man who was _genetically _his father. The scientific term helped keep things in perspective. It was James Bennett's only claim to the title.

Closing his eyes, Neal took a deep breath. The whole day had been like some kind of nightmare. Things had been awful – had been wretched enough – but now they were a thousand times worse.

* * *

He sent the first text after El's phone call and the second later on in the morning. It gave him a small thrill of pleasure to imagine how James must have felt. Even better was the stutter of fear in his heart. The unequivocal truth of discovery. He must have thought he was home and dry. That he'd escaped and was safely in the clear.

_In his dreams_.

Or maybe his nightmares.

Neal's lips curved, slowly, _cruelly_. James was insufferably arrogant. He needed to learn a sharp lesson and Neal was more than happy to oblige. Point one and uppermost in his mind was that no one got away with hurting Peter. Point two and almost as important…no one should underestimate _him._

James had done so and that was insulting. To be tossed aside and treated so carelessly. His father was about to realise he would not be so summarily dismissed.

He sent the third text after seeing El's face when the guards brought her out of the unit. Her eyes had been red-rimmed with crying. Her skin parchment-white with shock.

"_They wouldn't let me stay with him." _

She'd looked at Calloway for some sort of assistance. The woman had the grace to look a little shame-faced before quoting the usual vapid party line. Visiting was strictly prohibited for reasons of staff and officer safety. Hospital security was inadequate and far too easily breached.

Neal had given a silent cheer when Elizabeth stiffened with anger. _"It seems no one gave a damn about security when it was Peter's life on the line."_

Calloway had no answer apart from issuing a stream of orders. She would see_ her_ team first thing in the morning. No excuses, eight o'clock prompt. Berrigan looked like she was about to protest, her dark eyes burning with ferocity. Neal shook his head imperceptibly so she said nothing and compressed her lips. Settling back on the hard plastic chair, he went over the last few days again. He watched Calloway from under his lashes and sadistically enjoyed her unease.

_Pratt's puppet or simply an ambitious bitch?_

He wasn't sure yet which hat she was wearing. Right now, she was not his priority. Her time for comeuppance could wait. One thing he was absolutely sure of. Her involvement had hurt Peter badly. He didn't care if she was innocent or guilty. If Peter died, she would pay.

After that it turned into a nightmare. He remembered the sudden fear and confusion. Things had rapidly gone to hell in a hand-basket as the code-blue alarm rent the air.

* * *

He shivered and looked out at the night sky. The apartment was full of shadows. An atmosphere of silent expectancy seemed to quiver and pulse in the air. Neal exhaled and watched his breath fade on the glass. A fine mist which vanished in seconds. It was transient and unbearably fragile. An ephemeral proof of life.

_Nothing lasts forever._

The old adage mocked him. It sounded like the worst kind of cliché. Either that or the title of a novel or a sad romantic song. The words meant nothing when you were young and immortal and life was thrilling and full of possibilities. His future glittering with infinite potential and the entire world spread out at his feet.

_Nothing lasts forever. _

He smiled derisively. _Perhaps he was just getting older?_ There was danger involved with putting down roots and gradually letting folk in. If you loved, you got hurt. It was simple. Yet again he had found out the hard way. Caring made you weak, made you vulnerable. It exposed you to heartache and pain.

Like Kate, like Ellen, _like Peter…_

Face hardening, he reached for his cell phone and scrolled down through his list of contacts. He wanted some serious payback. Time to send another message to James. Walking across to the small kitchen counter, he didn't bother turning the lights on. In a strange way the darkness was comforting. It felt more in tune with his mood.

No more half-assed threats or innuendo. The anger inside him had crystallised. Not a game or an elusory war of words. James should know this was for real.

He hadn't slept now for twenty-four hours but every nerve in his body was humming. His mind seemed to vibrate with energy as his thumb hovered over the key-pad. _Julius Caesar,_ his favourite Shakespeare. Full of scheming, deception and treachery. The choice of play was more than appropriate. It was a tragedy of so-called friendly alliances and free will versus human fate.

James might behave like a maverick but appearances could be deceptive. In reality, he was a control freak and every move was carefully planned. Neal knew by now he would be seriously spooked. Being hounded wasn't part of his strategy. He could sense James out there in the darkness, simply waiting for his next show of hand. The link was sentient and strong and he could use it, the sudden spark of connection to his father. However much the inherent bond sickened him, it was still a way of making James pay.

_Send_. It was done. He let out a long breath and was surprised to see his hand was shaking. As though the energy had been sucked out of him and sent flying through the ether with the text. He didn't doubt that James was reading it now or that the words would mean something to him. All the pieces were lined up on the chess board. It was time to play his opening gambit.

He laid his cell down on the counter and poured a large glass of Rioja. Holding it up to the windows, the dark wine was the colour of blood. He drained it unusually quickly, the smooth tannins embracing his palate. It gave him a shot of Dutch courage and a measure of fire in his veins.

He threw a few essentials together. A fake passport and a few thousand dollars. A burner cell and a driver's license and a handy strip of forged credit cards.

The anklet key was hidden in the bookcase. He stared down at it for a long moment. It was suddenly immensely heavy as he held it on the flat of his palm. _No going back._ There would be no going back. He would effectively be burning his bridges. The price of revenge would be permanent if he pursued this vendetta against James.

_Elizabeth's grief at the hospital and her description of Peter's injuries… the piercing alert of the code blue alarm and the terrified look on her face…_

His fist clenched forcefully over the key. Sinews' tightening until his hand was in agony. The images were vivid and shocking as it pressed down like a brand into his flesh. _Prison…_ the word made his gut roil. Stench of terror and sweat and corruption. Every day another fight for survival. The memory made him feel physically sick. He'd been there. Knew what they were capable of. The levels that such men could go to. He closed his eyes against the blood and the horror and took another shuddering breath.

Peter didn't… _he hadn't deserved any of this. _He was a kind man and decent and honourable. He believed in a world where people did the right thing and the good guys won out in the end. Not this time. They didn't… _they hadn't_… and Peter had paid a terrible price. James had spotted an ideal opportunity and Neal didn't doubt it was personal. Framing Peter for the senator's murder must have seemed like a sweet recompense.

Some of the blame was unquestionably his. It was clearer when he looked back with hindsight. Some of the comments he'd made about Peter had been intentionally designed to wound James. It didn't matter if they were true. What he felt was a separate issue. In the end, he had wanted to punish his father. James had looked upon Peter as a rival. Relaxing his hand, he uncurled his fingers and waited for the ache to rescind.

The need to strike back was implacable. He gathered strength from the feeling of ruthlessness. The flame of anger burned in him brightly. He knew what he had to do. He had started this and now he would end it. At the very least, he owed Peter. He placed his foot on the edge of the bookcase and pulled up his trouser-leg.

His cell phone splintered the darkness, the strident tones disturbing the silence. He paused in the act of undoing the anklet, the key still poised in mid-air.

_Who?_

Not James, he looked down at the screen. The name flashed again, more insistently. He was strangely reluctant to answer it. Didn't want to have to deal with the pain. It was gutless and decidedly cowardly. His finger hovered over the off-switch. He wished to god, he had done it earlier. Sighing, he pressed answer instead.

"Elizabeth?"

"Neal, thank god I caught you," she sounded brittle and husky from crying. "Whatever it is you're planning to do, please don't. It just isn't worth it."

"Where are you?"

His mind raced as he tried stalling for time, feeling unnerved and a little incredulous. What the hell, was Peter's wife psychic, or just good at reading his mind? He remembered her face at the hospital and felt a quick pang of humility. It was amazing she'd noticed anything at all in the middle of all her distress.

"Neal, please," she ignored his question. "Not you too, I just couldn't bear it."

"_Elizabeth, I - "_

The lies were already poised on his tongue. All slick and lined up, ready and waiting. He could convince her in the space of a heartbeat and deliver them without breaking sweat. _This he knew – this he was good at._ The evasiveness came tripping so easily. He could tell her whatever she wanted to hear, make her believe him… _and yet…_

It was Elizabeth and she was suffering. His gut clenched in sudden frustration. For a second or two he was angry enough to wish he hadn't picked up the phone. The red mist burned brightly inside him and he really needed to do this. James had taken everything away from him. It was time for his father to pay. Elizabeth had friends, she had family. Plenty of folk she could lean on. It was unfair of her to play the conscience card or resort to emotional blackmail. He couldn't really believe she needed him. She was pure and tough and gutsy. People would rally around her, and in the end, she would survive.

He took a breath and leaned against the counter. The dark room was crowding in on him. His blood pulsed and throbbed with the same kind of fire as when he'd taken the gun after Fowler. Peter had stopped him, and now it was El. She was trying to talk him out of it. He gave a ragged sob of frustration and to his horror there were tears in his eyes.

"He wouldn't want it."

Her words pierced right through him. It didn't matter what Peter wanted. Neal fought off the subsequent images and tried desperately to push them aside.

"_I want it,"_ he said, passionately. "Don't you see, El, I need to do this. It's my fault James went after him. It's my fault that Peter…"

"Don't!" her voice broke over the line. "Don't say it and don't even think it. Peter went after Pratt of his own accord, no matter how much we tried to prevent him."

Another time, another hospital, and other old lies lay shattered between them. The memory was not a happy one. They'd both sought pretty hard to save Peter from harm, but at close of day, that ploy had failed. He smiled sadly. Peter had spiked their guns. He'd been unwavering and moreover damned determined. The man had been too single-minded. He was nothing if not resolute.

"You were right," he said, wretchedly. "From the start, you were right. I wish to god we had stopped him. That I'd never started this business with Pratt. I shouldn't have listened to James."

"No," he heard the catch in her throat. "I was wrong for all the right reasons. In trying to protect him from danger, all I did was deny who he was."

Neal laughed, softly, brokenly. "He could never be anything but Peter…"

"_Peter - "_ Elizabeth echoed the name and then gave a muffled sob.

"I'm sorry."

He hated to hear her cry. Hated that he was responsible. For a second, he wished she was here in the room, and then he could give her a hug. _Who was he kidding?_ The need was mutual. He was lost and the world was imploding. All the shields he had so carefully constructed were crumbling and turning to dust.

"Peter would really hate this. He'd do anything… _anything_ to stop you. If you go after James and you start breaking rules, then we'd both be letting him down."

"Not you," he spoke softly. "No one knows we had this conversation. James knows he can't hide forever, and I can force him to clear Peter's name."

"At what cost, your conscience, your freedom? Dear god, maybe even your life? You can't risk it, Neal, I won't let you. Stay here and do the right thing."

"Then James gets away?"

"I don't care about him, but I do care about you and Peter. He wouldn't allow you to do this. You have to promise me you'll stay here for him."

"I made you a similar promise before. It didn't turn out so well that time."

It was a low blow but he couldn't help it. The words seemed to sum up his bitterness. They came deep from somewhere inside him and burst out of their own accord. The awful thing was, he knew she was right. Peter wouldn't want him to do this. He would insist on finding another way of bringing Pratt's killer to justice.

"Guess I deserved that," El sounded subdued. "I was wrong, but it doesn't change things. Don't throw it all away for a man like James. Step back, Neal, he isn't worth it."

"But Peter is."

"Exactly, Peter _is._ He's the reason you have to stay."

Peter…_oh god, Peter_…all the adrenalin suddenly drained out of him, and he slid down the side of the counter. His knees bent like jack-knifes up to his chest as he came to a halt on the floor. He hated himself for feeling so weak but the feelings of rage had sustained him. He was rudderless, left with no means of support, now that the anger was fading.

Staying was going to be harder. It would take courage and a measure of sacrifice. Neal knew with a sudden flash of instinct, it would be the antithesis of James. Instead, it was the kind of thing Peter would do. The man who had gone out on a limb for him. Who'd seen past the carefully constructed façade and given him a chance to change his life.

_Not James. _

Not James, but Peter, who was dependable, upright and honourable. All the things his father could never be. All the qualities James despised. He caught his breath at the contrast. The comparison had never seemed starker. No more thrills, no more games, no more egotism, just one vital... make that, critical choice.

He could carry on skating over the ice and deny the embrace of black water. Look ahead to a brighter future whilst trying to refute who he was. In the past he had behaved like his father. Done certain things to prove he was clever. Stolen items just because they were pretty with no regard for the consequences or cost. The admission was tough and it hurt him, but the truth was an intense revelation. Even now, when his heart was breaking, he was trying to outsmart James.

"Are you still there? Neal, _please,_ just answer me?"

Elizabeth sounded frightened. He looked down at the key he held in his hand and took a long shaky breath. If he ran, he would be taking the easy way out and giving in to his desire for retribution. It was a short-term, even selfish solution. He would be acting exactly like his father.

He exhaled and the darkness drained out of him. His muscles releasing the anger. Nothing was set in tablets of stone. He didn't have to be a blueprint of James. They were father and son and therefore alike. He could exploit the fact to his advantage. He could be stronger and smarter and wiser, but in the end, he was his own man.

Maybe he had just cowboyed up… the ghost of a smile lit his features. There'd been a time when he'd hated that saying but now it felt like a comforting friend.

"I'm still here," he spoke the words softly. "I'll be here for as long as you need me. Doesn't mean I won't do everything possible to try and prove Peter was framed."

"Thank god," her voice broke down on a sob. "I wouldn't expect anything else."

Her comment caused him a tiny pang. He had so nearly trashed her expectations. Been so close to discarding the anklet and heading off on a course of revenge. It was still there, a burning trace of the anger, but now it was focused and rational. He was staying because he was needed… his self-respect was more important than vengeance.

Self-respect and his love for Peter. The man who really _wasn't _his father. Who had nonetheless supported and believed in him. Who might have sacrificed his life to call him friend.

He switched his phone off and replaced the anklet key. Went to the window and stared out across the city. He had a sense of definition, of purpose. The ice no longer cracked beneath his feet.

_**THE END**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2013**_


End file.
